Sand
by Ebolafan
Summary: Meg disappears during an undercover mission.  Can Benton find her in time? Meg Thatcher, Benton Fraser drama, romance.


The sun beat unmercifully against the bleached sand, radiating heat from the mud and stucco buildings, as well as off the white graveled street. Meg could feel the sweat pooling in the small of her back, her clothes under the all-concealing abaaya having reached saturation point with perspiration long before their arrival in the suq. Risking yet another look of disapproval from Yasa, she paused for a moment in the doorway of the shop, reaching up with one hand to adjust the khimar that covered her face leaving only her eyes visible. Yasa's sisters, nieces and cousins hurried past them, a flock of black-garbed birds chattering excitedly at the prospect of obtaining more necklaces of gold and jewelled trinkets. To be a woman in Al Dammam was to shop - endlessly it seemed. Feeling the stare from the older woman, Meg abandoned the fruitless attempt to adjust the face cloth and headscarf, and her hand dropped back to her side. Automatically, her eyes scanned the notice posted at the door and she recognised the Arabic characters forbidding men to patronise the shop. Sighing, she joined the other women inside the store.

Even indoors, the heat was oppressive. The heady scent of perfumes, unwashed bodies and the ever-present jasmine oil and spiced grilled lamb from the street threatened to overwhelm her. The store with all of its expensive baubles was an oven.

"Amaya, look! Pretty-pretty for me," Ondan gushed in halting English, holding a pair of dangling ruby and gold earrings in front of Meg's face. At age fourteen, Ondan was the youngest member of the group, newly veiled, and proudly counting the months until her marriage.

"Imdohko," Meg agreed, a small smile at the irrepressible girl evident in her voice. "Very pretty," she repeated in English.

"It was a good match," Yasa mused in English reading Meg's thoughts, "he is only twenty-two years her senior."

Meg shook her head. In the five weeks of detention, her views had become distorted. She should have looked upon Ondan with pity, but considering the culture, she would be far more fortunate than many of her contemporaries. '_It's this place, I feel as though I've been here for years_.'

The shopkeeper eyed the two women with curiosity over the gaggle of younger ones pawing through the jewellry. They stood just inside the doorway, showing no interest in the wares of her fine establishment. The older one was well known to her -- Yasamina, matriarch of the provincial governor's house. She was a true child of Allah - ruling over the women and children of the household with an iron will as was required -- Praise be to Allah! Those of her house averaged a trip to the marketplace twice a week, and expected only the finest of quality, as befitted a ruling family of the Eastern Provinces.

It was the strange one who made the shopkeeper's eyes narrow. A slim figure clad from toe to head in black, but with hands too pale, and possessing a manner not befitting a Muslimah. She did not need to see through the abaaya to know that the new addition to the family was a foreigner.

It was the oil that brought these devils here with their infidel ways. It was bad enough having businessmen dressed in their strange clothes, shaming the women on the streets by their stares and comments, but now to accept one of these foreigners into the most powerful family of the province was an insult. However, she was a practical woman. As long as the family continued to patronise her shop, what care was it of hers if the strange one came along. It would all be paid, regardless of who bought it. Still, it was a relief when they finally departed.

* * *

Constable Benton Fraser stood at rigid attention before the desk of his Commanding Officer, Margaret Thatcher. He refused to meet the woman's eyes, staring at a fixed point on the wall, over her right shoulder.

The woman behind the desk ignored his presence in favour of leafing through a stack of paperwork. After a full three minutes by his reckoning, he heard the sheaf of papers hit the desk, and the sound of her throat clearing. She remained motionless for another moment, contemplating his rigid stance.

"Constable Fraser," she began in a no-nonsense tone, bordering on sarcasm, "how nice of you to make an appearance."

"I was not aware that I had a choice, Ma'am," he replied stiffly, continuing to stare at nothing.

Rising from her chair, his so-called superior crossed into his line of vision.

Eyes the colour of green ice met his steely blue.

There was an air of haughtiness in her demeanor, a coldness that flowed from her impeccably tailored suit to her perfectly coiffed blonde hair. This truly was 'the Ice Queen' of Ray's laments.

"You are aware that I refused to forward your transfer request to Ottawa," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Yes, Ma'am," he replied, meeting her gaze with an unreadable expression.

"You will address me by rank or as 'Sir.' Do you understand me, Constable?" She was very close to yelling at this infuriating man, this Mountie. Everyone else at this insane asylum of a consulate was on board with the programme. Why was he so stubborn?

"Permission to speak freely?" he asked with a calmness that belied the muscles clenching along his jaw line.

"No," she snapped. "I think you've said enough already, Constable. You are the only one here who is qualified to do this work." The admission was very hard for her to make, but the situation had been taken out of her hands, thanks to his complaints, no doubt.

"It was never my inten..." he began only to be cut off by her fury.

"SIR! It was never my intention, SIR!" She leaned forward across the desk, her face scant inches from his. "Say it," she demanded, in a quieter tone, "you at least owe me that courtesy. Obviously I am not an officer nor a member of the RCMP, but I didn't ask to come here."

"I meant no disrespect, sir." His calm tone contrasted the shrillness of hers.

"Oh, yes, you did," a slight smile played at her lips. She resumed her seat behind the desk. "I can see your point-of-view, Constable, but I ask you to also see mine." She paused for a moment, calculating how many of her true feelings she could reveal to this man.

"I realise that you and your colleagues have borne the brunt of the workload here, and that I am ill-equipped to do more than sit behind this desk and sign the paperwork that you complete. This was a last minute arrangement, and given a choice, I would have refused. I left a very important position in the CSIS, with a great deal of responsibility to come to this... backwater of a city, and watch over a group of Mounties and minor diplomatic sycophants. Frankly, I don't know how your Inspector Thatcher does her job and handles all of you, but since I _am_ Inspector Thatcher until further notice, I suggest that you stop trying to go over my head and cause trouble. She won't thank you for it if they find her with a bullet in the back of her head because you can't play along."

She watched him closely to see how her words affected him. He had to be brought under control quickly, without taking the time for more formal indoctrination. He was a renegade and a trouble-maker. No man would ever place an obstacle in the upwardly mobile plans of her career. Ever. There was a barely perceptible change in his expression. Was that a reaction to her last words? '_Ah, so the Inspector is the key to making him behave. I can use this quite nicely_.' She smiled in triumph.

"I trust I will have no further interference from you, Constable?" she asked sharply.

"No, sir."

"You may resume your duties. Dismissed."

'_Ah, yes_,' she thought, watching the scarlet-clad man hastily exit her office. '_There was a way to hold any man captive. Now, how to use it..._'

* * *

The setting sun was poised on the edge of the horizon. Its final rays transformed the garden with a magical golden radiance. Small, brightly coloured birds sang in a cacophony of shrieks and shrill whistles as they sorted out the roosting order for nightfall among the trees and shrubs. The sun's final brilliance of the day proved to be a memory as dusk's shadows began to gather. The cries of the Muttawa filled the air, as they called to the men of the city to bring Glory to Allah. Although the garden was enclosed in high, thick walls, in her mind's eye, Meg could see the fathers and brothers leading their sons by the hand toward the nearby Mosque. Old and young, rich and poor, the men of Al Dammam followed the dusty paths to the house of worship for the fourth prayer of the day.

She sat motionless on the heavy, sun-warmed stone bench, allowing the latent heat to soak into bruised calves and thighs. The essence of sandalwood imbued her senses with a tranquility long sought but rarely captured.

"The trip to the market place disturbed you, Amaya."

Meg smiled as she acknowledged Yasa's gentle presence. Although it was one of many unspoken rules among the women of the household to allow the eldest the solitude of the early evening alone in the garden, Meg knew she was welcome.

"Thank you for letting me go today," she said quietly. The older woman settled onto the bench beside her.

"Amaya, you should be practicing to speak properly," Yasa softly chided. "Your husband will expect much progress by the time of the wedding. Few days remain to learn."

"Thalatheen ... saadni, Yasa." Meg sighed, knowing she was mispronouncing the number of days in detention.

"Thalatheen al khamsa, Amaya," she corrected patiently.

"I'm sorry, I really am trying to learn." She closed her eyes, suddenly weary of the pretense.

Yasa picked up Meg's hand, holding it firmly in hers. "Do you understand why he set upon you today, the man in the street?"

Meg turned her head, looking directly into Yasa's eyes. "Yes, I tried to help a woman who was being attacked."

"It was a private matter, you should not have interfered. For touching the Mattawa, you could have been arrested. It was fortunate that he left you only with reminders. Do not rely on the status of this household to protect you next time."

'_Anything can be sanitised here_,' she reflected silently. '_A woman wearing a designer blouse is thrown to the ground by a man twice her size and kicked, for being "indecent", and bruises are called "reminders". At least I did much more than 'touch' that Mattawa. His reminders will outlast mine._'

To Yasa, it appeared that Meg was smiling serenely, accepting her wisdom and having repentant thoughts.


End file.
